


Dogs Don't Come Into It

by hyacinth_sky747



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinth_sky747/pseuds/hyacinth_sky747
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets a bit turned on by Sherlock. But he's not going to act on it. No way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sherlock? Did you kidnap my sister?”

Sherlock was staring open-mouthed into thin air. He did not respond. John sighed and put the shopping down in Sherlock’s lap. He’d bought ice cream and frozen vegetables. It took a few moments for the cold to seep through the layers of bag and trouser fabric. 

Sherlock came to with a gasp. 

“I said, ‘Could you pass me my phone?’”

“Yes, I was out for several hours. I said, ‘Did you kidnap my sister?’”

“No. Can you pass me my phone?”

John didn’t move. Sherlock wasn’t lying about the kidnapping. Not exactly. Harry did have a flair for overstatement, but Sherlock had a way of fucking with the meaning of words, of purposefully misunderstanding the common man. 

“Did you detain my sister against her will?”

“Define how you’re using _detain_ and _will_. You are very imprecise in your speech, John.”

“Don’t be difficult, Sherlock. Did you take my sister from a street corner, into a cab, and take her to a location where you quizzed her for some time about my childhood and personal habits?”

Sherlock put his fingers under his chin and considered this for several seconds.

“No.”

“To which part?”

“Can you repeat it?”

“Oh for—Did you take—“

“No!” Sherlock said. 

“Okay, you didn’t take her. Did you lure her or somehow get her to leave a street corner—“

“Yes and no.”

John felt his blood pressure rising. He decided a drink was necessary in order to continue the discussion. This might be a really fun conversation after six or so drinks. Sherlock Holmes, the living party game. He poured himself a single and let it slide down his throat. He added some ice and poured a triple to bring back to the sitting room. He sat in his chair and took some deep calming breaths. He put on a smile. 

“Hi there, Sherlock.”

“Can you pass me my phone?”

“Hey! What happened with my sister?”

“When? Only, I have asked three times for you to pass me my phone.” 

“Your phone is closer to you than it is to me. In fact, your phone was closer to you than me when I was at the shops listening to my sister scream hysterically at me on my phone.”

“Yes, but you were already up and I was thinking.”

“I’m not up anymore.”

“You should have gotten it when you were getting your whiskey. Now you’ll just have to get up all over again.” 

“If I get up it’s going to be to tell Mrs Hudson that you have her blender.”

Sherlock looked toward the cupboard where he’d hidden that appliance. 

“John, that is below the belt.” 

“Actually I don’t even have to get up. I could just ring her.”

“But the banana smoothies and the satisfying whir, John. I’m not sure a new blender would make such a satisfying whir. It has exactly the right register for a whir.” 

John took out his phone.

“Fine! What? What is it you want to know?”

“What happened with my sister?”

“We just had a nice chat.”

John started poking buttons on his phone.

“I found her in a pub, not a street corner. And I sent in a rather attractive homeless woman to get her to come out of the pub, and into a car with me. She thought we were going to engage in some sort of threesome at first. I know you said she’s gay but she didn’t seem all that opposed to—“

“Sherlock!” John took another sip of his drink. He closed his eyes. “Bear in mind that you are talking about my sister.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about, John. You see, when a woman is gay and a man is gay there is usually nothing to worry about in regards to them engaging in any kind of sexual—“

“You’re gay? Is that what you are telling me?” 

“I’m about as gay as your sister. Which is not one hundred percent if her indicators of sexual arousal are in any way similar to yours.” 

John had a little daydream about getting up and grabbing the bottle of whiskey and going upstairs to his room. Once there he would drink until this entire conversation had fled his brain. It was a pleasant little daydream and one he thought he might turn into reality as soon as he tied up a few loose ends. 

“Sherlock, listen carefully. Stay away from Harry. Don’t kidnap her, or lure her with attractive females. Don’t accidently bump into her at the bank to say hey. If you have a question about me you should just ask me.”

“That hardly seems fair, John. Mycroft abducts you all the time.”

There was so much wrong with that statement that John didn’t know where to begin. 

“Sherlock! Just because Mycroft occasionally sends a car to pick me up does not mean it’s okay for you to start doing the same thing to my sister. The Holmes brothers kidnapping the Watson siblings is not a thing that must be done.”

“But it’s illuminating. Mycroft says you also show certain indications of sexual arousal when—“

John stood up. Normally this would not be so alarming, but as Sherlock was sitting and the look on John’s face was so very fierce, it was actually rather alarming. 

“Harry is off limits.”

Sherlock nodded. It was, perhaps, best to pursue this conversation when John was not feeling so touchy. Sherlock didn’t feel all that well himself, come to think of it. He had a bit of a chill. It was probably stress induced. One couldn’t be glared at in such a fashion and remain in the peak of physical condition. 

“John, I think I might be coming down with a cold.”

“You don’t say. What are your symptoms?”

“I have a chill.”

“Did it originate in the area of your crotch?”

“Yes! It can’t be venereal. I didn’t lay a finger on your sister. Do you think you should listen to my lungs or something?”

“I think you should put away the shopping, genius.” 

Sherlock looked down at the bag of thawing freezer products in his lap. The strawberry ice cream was making a slow bid for freedom by trampling all over the frozen peas. 

“I don’t eat ice cream, John.”

John was saved from having to murder his flatmate in defense of his sanity by the doorbell ringing in the way that announced a client. Sherlock dropped the bag onto the rug and went to the mirror to straighten his clothes. John considered getting the word _doormat_ tattooed on his forehead while he rescued the ice cream. 

~*~

There was nothing more they could do with the case until nightfall. Sherlock observed the lack of decent places to sprawl in the pub, and headed for the small garden out back. John stopped to order a pint. He found Sherlock spread out on the grass, his coat pooling around him like an ink stain. John set his pint on the ground and lay next to him. It was a gorgeous day and the grass felt cool, like lying in a shallow pool of water. 

“I see a puppy with a bone,” John said. 

“Where?” 

“In that cloud. See the one ear trailing down?”

John saw a dragon and a phoenix and another puppy. 

“Come on. What do you see?” 

“Clouds. Water vapor.”

“No. I mean, look at the shapes the clouds make.”

“Fractals,” Sherlock said. 

John pointed at the heavens. “Look over there. See the camel? The head with the eye and those two humps?”

“It doesn’t have any legs.”

“It’s sitting in the sand.”

John saw a Viking ship and an octopus. Sherlock saw cauliflower and smoke and cotton balls. The sun’s rays made a miniature rainbow in one of the clouds. A plane soared by so far overhead that it was silent, just a metal body sliding across the blue and down to the horizon. John watched it until it disappeared into the tree line. He could feel Sherlock staring at him but just then he didn’t want to know more about the case, or hear Sherlock’s lecture on cumulous clouds. He didn’t want to know they were called cumulous clouds. He wanted them to each have their own name, Viking Ship, Puppy Dog, Camel in Desert. John could already see them changing, flowing into some other form, something else that he’d love but was different from that which he’d loved. 

It made his heart ache. 

He turned to look at Sherlock. Maybe there was something grand in the way Sherlock viewed the world. It was practical and unencumbered by things that made ones heart ache. 

Sherlock was looking ridiculously romantic in the prosaic evening light. He looked like some character from a nineteenth century gothic novel that had fallen asleep heartbroken on a foggy, windswept moor and had awoken to dinner hour on a Tuesday in a sleepy country village. 

“You do observe, John.”

“Pardon?”

“You observe. You observe the clouds and you see things I can’t see. You’re not actually an idiot, you know. You’re just tuned into a different frequency. It’s like you see colors that my eyes aren’t equipped to see. Like you can hear things that are out of my range of hearing. Like a dog.” 

John thought Sherlock was like a cloud in that moment. He could see Sherlock change. The man lying next to him was not the man he’d met at Bart’s all those years ago. Yes, he was the same basic molecules and structure but he’d flowed into something new, like a Viking ship morphing into a dragon. John was still giddy with the height and improbability of him, but he’d loved Sherlock in many forms and would love each new form. It comforted him. 

“A dog is man’s best friend. Or should I be offended that you’re comparing me to a dog?”

“You’re my best friend. Dogs don’t come into it. Don’t talk to me for a bit. I’m going to think now.” 

John smiled. He looked back up at the sky, at the tumble of clouds sailing in a sea of blue. He felt utterly content and tumbled off to sleep. 

~*~

John and Lestrade were playing a game. They were technically on a stake-out but they’d been waiting for hours and the game didn’t distract them from watching. 

“A Farewell to Pussy,” Lestrade said. 

The game was replacing one of the words of a movie or book title with _penis_ or _vagina_ or some vulgar variation of those words. John thought it hysterical, mostly because it annoyed Sherlock who made clucking noises of disapproval like a maiden aunt. 

Sherlock was banned from the game after coming up with _In Cold Vagina_ and _Moby Dick_. 

“No Pussy for Old Men,” John said.

“Starring Mycroft Holmes,” Sherlock muttered. 

John let out a peal of laughter before Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth. 

“We are trying to avoid notice, John.” John subsided but couldn’t resist licking at Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock snatched his hand away and wiped it on the back of John’s shirt. “Stop moving about so much. You have a bony bottom.”

The three of them were squished into the cab of a truck. There was no place for John but on Sherlock’s lap. It had been supremely uncomfortable until John just decided to treat Sherlock like a lounge chair. He was now sprawled with his head resting against Sherlock’s shoulder and his hair tickling Sherlock’s neck. Lestrade had his own seat but it was rather cold out and John felt he’d gotten the best seat in the house. 

“I think my arse is asleep,” Sherlock said. 

“Doesn’t matter,” John said, trying to stifle a yawn. “It’s all transport.” He liked to remind Sherlock of this whenever his friend complained of discomfort.

“The Old Man and the Penis,” Lestrade said. 

“Mycroft could have quite an acting career,” John said. He thought for a few moments, trying to come up with a title that would make Sherlock tut. 

“The Little Penis,” Lestrade said.

“It’s not your turn.” 

“Starring Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade added. 

Sherlock spluttered. “I do not have a little penis! John! Tell him!”

Lestrade looked delighted. “What? You’ve seen his cock?”

John blushed and tried to stop but that only made him blush more. “I’ve seen lots of—no—I mean—I’m a doctor! He—It was a perfectly innocent, professional examination. Not even—I wasn’t—He was injured and—“ John stopped. Lestrade looked like Christmas had come early. Fuck him. Lestrade would think whatever he wanted. 

“Sherlock has a perfectly adequate cock. Quite long, even.” 

John settled back against Sherlock. His heart was racing. He wished it wouldn’t. He had nothing to be ashamed of. 

“That was nice of you, John,” Sherlock said. He said it directly into John’s ear, making John jump a little. “You’ve just given Lestrade enough wank material for years to come.”

Lestrade let out a laugh and called a truce.

“A Study in Cock,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear. John didn’t laugh. He felt he wasn’t meant to and honestly, he didn’t feel like laughing. He was suddenly very aware of Sherlock’s hands. One rested on John’s thigh and the other on his belly. They’d probably been there for hours. It was all quite innocent and unimportant. He felt vulnerable and exposed though and wished for one wild moment that Lestrade was far, far away, that Sherlock would say something more.

 _The Great Cock_ Sherlock would say. _Could you star in a movie like that, John? Why don’t you show me?_

Fucking hell! John coughed and tried to pull himself together. Sherlock was staring down at him and Lestrade was staring out the window as if he too, wished he was far, far away. John sat up and tried to close his legs a bit, realizing he was sprawled all over Sherlock like a wanton rent boy. 

Sherlock groaned and tugged him back down. 

“Don’t move so much.”

John settled back down, every muscle tense, hoping their quarry would choose that moment to show himself so he could get out of Sherlock’s lap. His hair must have been tickling Sherlock’s face again because Sherlock raised his hand to smooth it down. He let it fall back onto to John’s thigh. It came to rest higher up than it’d been before. John turned his head to press his cheek against the cool glass of the window. 

No one said anything for awhile.

~*~

John woke at dawn. His face was buried in Sherlock’s neck. He was stiff and sore and Sherlock was shaking him. 

“He didn’t show?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “We’ll have to come back tonight.” 

Lestrade was already outside, stretching his back. John got out and climbed carefully off of Sherlock. It felt good to move. He lifted his arms over his head and began to walk the stiffness out of his legs. Sherlock toppled out of the truck.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looked thoroughly bemused. “My legs were so numb I couldn’t tell they were numb. They wouldn’t hold me, John.”

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock had a scrape on his face and his coat and trousers were covered in dust. John knelt beside him.

“We’ll clean your face at home. Try to move your legs.”

They moved, though Sherlock winced a bit when he flexed the left one. John felt the ankle.

“Sore?”

“A bit.”

“I think you’ve sprained it. Anything else hurt?”

Sherlock shook his head. John felt he really ought to check out Sherlock’s whole leg. He could have wretched his knee or pulled a muscle in his groin and if John was any kind of professional he would examine the leg before having Sherlock hobble around on it. 

“Just let me,” John said, feeling his face grow hot. It was intolerable. If he was going to feel up his flatmate (which he was not sure he wanted to do) then he wanted to do it honestly, not as some perverted doctor preying on an injured friend. And he wasn’t doing that. He was honestly doing his job and he wanted to kick himself for his trembling hands and heated face. 

“Everything alright?”

Lestrade had come around the truck and was watching them. 

“He fell. Help me get him up.” 

It was a long ride back to Baker Street. Sherlock sat on John’s lap. Lestrade drove like a madman and then the three of them hobbled up the stairs with Sherlock between them. When Sherlock was deposited on the couch Lestrade buggered off to get some sleep and John got some ice for Sherlock’s ankle. 

“I can take you to the doctor.”

“You’re a doctor, John.”

“Yes, but, I’m also your flatmate. Your friend. You may not want—You might be more comfortable—“

“I’m most comfortable with you, John. You know that.”

John smiled and knelt at Sherlock’s feet to ice his ankle. The light of day and the familiar comfort of Baker Street made the events of last night seem ridiculous. It was just exhaustion, the warmth of Sherlock’s body in the cold, and a momentary fantasy that had fled. 

“It’s really just my ankle, John. No need to remove my trousers I’m afraid. Unless you want to.”

John looked up at Sherlock. He was smiling hugely. Teasing. 

“I want to ice your ankle. Then we’ll bind it. No running and walk on it as little as possible.”

Sherlock settled back in his chair and let John tend to him. John’s hands were steady. When he was done he made Sherlock lie flat in his bed and climbed the stairs to his own. Everything was normal. Everything was right. 

In his dreams Sherlock’s hands were on his belly and his thigh and he was whispering _cock_ into John’s ear. John didn’t remember the dream when he woke in the evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock’s face was an inch away from John’s when John woke. 

“John. John. John,” Sherlock was saying. He was straddling John in the bed, his arse in the air, his hands resting solidly on John’s shoulders. 

“I’m awake,” John said. Sherlock leaned back, giving John a moment to blink his eyes open and look at the clock. It was half five and the daylight was waning. He’d just have time to eat before they left for another night in the cramped truck. He let out a small, dissatisfied grunt. He wanted to shower.

“I’ve made you toast and eggs,” Sherlock said. “Get in the shower and then come eat.”

John sat up in surprise. “You did?”

“I do have to sit in close proximity to you all night, John. I appreciate good hygiene.”

“Mrs. Hudson made it didn’t she?”

“Yes. She made me eat some too. Come on. We need to be there by full dark.”

“Perhaps I should stay behind. I can’t sit on your lap all night with your ankle injured.” 

“You can have your own seat. Lestrade’s not coming.”

“Oh,” John said. He told himself that he wasn’t disappointed. He did not want to be held by Sherlock Holmes all night. And anyway, if he wanted a cuddle from his friend he was getting one now. Sherlock was, in fact, sitting on John’s ribs. Had they always been this tactile with each other? Was John really so unobservant that he didn’t notice until he’d had an inappropriate fantasy? 

“Get off me then,” John said. It wasn’t what he wanted but it was necessary. 

~*~

The flat was cold and the streets were cold and the interior of the truck was cold. Sherlock was quiet, deep in thoughts that John thought it best not to disturb. John huddled into his coat and tried to think about warm things that didn’t involve him being tucked into Sherlock’s lap. The cold was bearable until he dozed off and woke up shivering.

“Fuck, it’s freezing.”

Sherlock came out of his thoughts with a little start. 

“You weren’t cold last night.”

“Last night I had a heated seat.”

“Oh. Yes.” Sherlock studied John for a moment, noting the way he was curled up on the seat, his breath was white on the air, and the way he flexed his fingers to bring the feeling back into them. “I’ll have to join you. You won’t fit with the steering wheel here.”

“You’ll hurt your ankle,” John protested. 

“I won’t. I’ll tell you if I need to move.”

John didn’t protest anymore. He didn’t want to. He was cold. He sat up to make room in the seat. 

Sherlock climbed over the gear shift with more grace than a man his size and with a sprained ankle had any right to. John had expected to be pulled into Sherlock’s lap but Sherlock straddled him again, folding up his long legs under him and looming over John. 

“You’ll have to watch the street. I can’t see,” he said. 

John craned his neck but he couldn’t see either. Sherlock was in the way. 

“Crouch down.”

Sherlock rested his bum on John’s knees and leaned a bit to the side, his head resting against the back of the seat and John’s shoulder. His breath was warm on John’s neck and John fought the impulse to nestle against it, to hold his aching hands up to Sherlock’s mouth for warmth as he would hold them before a fire, to press his cold nose and cheeks to the warm pulse points on Sherlock neck. 

Sometimes John wondered if Sherlock could actually read his mind. This was one of those times. Sherlock took John’s hands in his own, cupped them to his mouth, and breathed over them. He did this three times before pulling away and rubbing John’s hands between his own. John felt more warmed by the kindness and care than by Sherlock’s breath and hands, though that was nice too. 

“Your fingers are like ice,” Sherlock said. He took John’s left hand and put just the tips of John’s four fingers between his lips and blew a gust of warm air out around them. John tensed. He went absolutely still. Sherlock went still too. 

“Does it hurt?” 

John’s fingers still rested on Sherlock’s bottom lip. He reached out with his thumb to stroke gently down Sherlock’s face.

“No.” John wanted to pull his hand away or summon a laugh. He wanted to do anything but sit there like a fool with his breath loud in his ears and stare at his fingers on Sherlock’s lips. Only, he also thought he might be quite happy to never do anything else again but sit in this tender, fragile moment. He’d be a fool forever if Sherlock would never stop looking at him the way he was looking at him now. 

John felt he couldn’t step forward. He couldn’t be the one to cross that line between friends and something else. He couldn’t convince himself to let go of being straight. He’d been straight for ever so long. He was used to it. The thought of changing that part of himself frightened him, but it also thrilled him. 

A small part of him wished that Sherlock would just push him over the edge, just take whatever he wanted from John. He wanted Sherlock to do something shocking and lewd to him, cup his crotch, shove his hand down the back of his trousers, press his tongue into his mouth. Something that would spur John into action without thought, or fumbling with words. 

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock said. 

“What could?”

“Leaving your hand there. I have sharp teeth.”

“Do you bite?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer. He did something shocking. It was not the kind of shocking that John had in mind. Sherlock pressed his lips very gently to John’s cheek. It was a chaste demonstration of physical affection, but, in that moment, it felt more intimate than groping feverishly at each other’s clothes. A quick fuck could mean anything, couldn’t it? A surge of hormones, a bout of insanity. One did not hold hands and kiss and cuddle their flatmate in a dark car unless—

“Sherlock?”

“We don’t have to talk about it. You don’t want to talk about it.”

“Stop reading my mind.”

“Then we might have to talk about it.”

John was going to laugh but Sherlock stopped John’s breath and thoughts with a kiss. It was urgent and warm and John’s blood sang in his ears and his heart pounded and warmth pooled low in his belly as Sherlock’s hands slipped firmly down his sides to pull at John’s hips, urging them closer together. John was panting and his hips were undulating in Sherlock’s strong grip when Sherlock moved to suck at John’s neck. 

“Fucking bastard!” John whispered fiercely. 

Sherlock pulled away and looked up at him with alarm and hurt in his eyes.

“Not you. Not you. Drive. He’s just come out.”

Sherlock whipped around to peer through the windshield. Their suspect was climbing into a car down the street. 

“Fucking bastard!” he said.

“I told you.”

Sherlock swore under his breath and dropped a quick kiss onto John’s nose before scrambling off him and into the driver’s seat. It was not a high speed chase. They just wanted to follow the man in the hope that he would lead them to the center of the smuggling operation. John’s heart raced as though it was. The high of adrenalin coursed through him and he could not stop the laughter that bubbled up and burst forth as a whoop of glee. 

Sherlock smiled at him. He looked disheveled and keyed-up and flushed. He looked like sex and danger in a long black coat. John rolled down the window. He wanted to feel the rush of wind, to fly on it. He also wanted to check out his neck in the side mirror to see if Sherlock had left a love bite. It was too dark to see properly though and the wind was bitter so John rolled the window up and sat back in his seat.

“I didn’t bruise you. I’ll be careful with you,” Sherlock said. 

“Don’t,” John said. 

Sherlock’s eyes slid toward him and the truck swerved a little on the road.

“Oh John, you could be very dangerous.” 

~*~

The case took three more days to solve. They were hectic days in which Sherlock refused to pause for meals, slept for only an hour or two when there was a lull, and kept his word about not speaking of _it_. 

John didn’t really want to speak of it either, but he wouldn’t have minded some sign that it had happened, that it hadn’t all been a dream. He knew Sherlock though. When Sherlock was absorbed in his work nothing else existed for him. That wouldn’t change just because he’d groped John Watson in the dark of one night. 

Still, John’s thoughts traveled in endless circles throughout those days. He relived the heat of Sherlock’s kiss. Wondered if it would happen again. Tried to convince himself it would be fine if it didn’t happen again. Tried to think of ways to make it happen again. Tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t die in a fire of unsatisfied lust if it didn’t happen again. Scolded himself for dwelling on one fucking kiss so much. 

“John, stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Research. It won’t be exciting or dangerous. Try to sleep. You’re swaying on your feet.”

John looked around Lestrade’s office for a comfortable place to curl up. Sometimes it felt like he spent more hours sleeping in this room than at Baker Street. One day he was going install a chaise lounge. 

“You’re pouting, John.”

John tried to rearrange his face.

“I miss my bed and—“ He made himself stop. Anything he said right now would make him sound ridiculous. He didn’t know what he wanted to say anyway. 

_Do you remember that you kissed me?_

_When this is over will you do it again?_

_Please, please touch me._

_Fuck me._

No. It would all sound needy and—

Sherlock kicked the door to Lestrade’s office closed. The blinds were still open but they were alone for the first time in days and Sherlock was looking at him with a dangerous kind of fire in his eyes. 

He leaned over to suck a bruise into John’s neck. John let out a gasp and Sherlock pulled away. He ran his thumb over the bruise. 

“I remember, John. Stop torturing yourself. Stop being so fucking tempting.”

Sherlock looked around to make sure no one was watching, placed a swift, soft kiss on John’s forehead, and then he was gone with a swish of coat and the door closing softly behind him. John put his shaking fingers to the spot on his neck that was still damp and slightly warm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem. This is porn. You are warned.

Sherlock woke him well before dawn. 

“It’s over. We’re going home.”

John stumbled as Sherlock dragged him to his feet. He was sore from sleeping on the floor of Lestrade’s office.

“Time is it? What happened?”

“It’s half three. No exciting climax to this case I’m afraid. Disappointing really. I like it when you get to show up with a gun in your hand. It does things to me.”

That cleared some of the sleep from John’s brain. Sherlock pulled him out of the building and into a cab. 

“What kind of things?”

Sherlock just smiled.

“Have you eaten? Have you slept?”

“I’ve eaten. Lestrade made me stop or I would have picked you up sooner.”

“You need to sleep.”

“After,” Sherlock said.

John didn’t ask after what. He knew. He didn’t know how he kept himself on his side of the seat when he was overcome with a powerful urge to crawl to Sherlock on his knees.

Sherlock let them into Baker Street quietly. John began climbing the stairs but Sherlock grabbed the waistband of his trousers firmly and pulled him back. 

“Here,” he said and pushed John up against the door.

“Mrs Hudson.”

“At her sister’s.”

Sherlock’s kiss was searing. It blotted out thought and light. John was left with only a raging desire, the urge to get every inch of his body as close to Sherlock as he could. Sherlock kissed him and stroked him and petted him until John was sweating and breathless. 

He backed away suddenly, leaving John clutching at the doorknob for support. 

“You said I wasn’t to be careful, John. But I will be. I’ll always be careful with you. It doesn’t mean I have to be nice or gentle though. Do you want that?”

John licked his lips. Swallowed. “You know I like danger.”

Sherlock grew somber and serious. “You’re to tell me if you start to regret saying that.”

He kissed John’s nose. 

John shook his head. “I want it.” Three days of pining after Sherlock, of imagining increasingly depraved encounters, of waiting for Sherlock to touch him again, had left John desperate, wanting everything that Sherlock wanted to give. 

Sherlock smiled wickedly. “I, John Watson, am going to take you apart.”

John’s pulse thudded in his ears. 

“Do you want to take off your clothes? Or shall I undress you?”

The choice made John feel exposed. He’d have to tell and Sherlock would read something into his choice. He’d know something about John that felt dark and deeply revealing. He’d never felt like this during sex before. Shame mingled with desire. Sex had always been something of a joyous, tender romp. Sex with Sherlock had a dark and thrilling edge. John longed for the feverish stripping of clothes while trying to snog each other brainless. But he wanted this. He wanted to either stand and strip in front of Sherlock while Sherlock looked on with his calculating gaze or have Sherlock do it for him. He wanted to be laid bare and vulnerable. 

“You do it.”

Sherlock smiled as if he knew already that would be John’s choice. He stepped closer and began to reveal John’s skin while John trembled and looked up at him with eyes gone dark with desire. 

When he was fully stripped Sherlock pulled John’s hands over his head and pinned them to the door while his eyes raked John’s body. He pressed himself close. Let John feel how naked he was against all of Sherlock’s clothes. 

“My God, you must be the sweetest fuck, John. Are you? Tell me all about it.” 

John was so turned on he was surprised he didn’t come all over Sherlock’s trousers. 

“I don’t—I‘ve never been fucked before.”

Sherlock bent at the knees as if they wouldn’t hold him anymore. His crotch pressed so firmly against John’s it nearly hurt. 

“Yes. Do that. Pretend you’re a complete novice. Pretend you’ve never had an orgasm before.”

“No. You know what I mean. I’ve never—“

Sherlock shushed him. “It’ll feel good. You’ll make an awful mess but it will feel good. Tell me what you want me to do to you, John.” 

John blushed but he made himself say it. “I want you to do something dirty to me. Something unspeakably filthy.”

“Later. We’ll get creative later. And I’m not putting my cock in your arse tonight. You’re not ready. Let me suck your cock and finger fuck you on the stairs. Then I’ll flip you over and rub my cock against your crack until I come.” 

John was speechless for a moment, only capable of letting out a loud, undignified moan of lust. He didn’t care about dignity anymore. He and dignity were no longer friends. 

Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the door.

“Sit on the stairs,” he said. He grabbed John’s arse with his other hand, digging his fingers in hard and propelling him down the hall. “I’ve dreamed about coming home to find you sitting on the stairs with your legs spread and your cock hard, waiting for me. In my dream you’d prepared your hole. You were all wet and stretched for me I all I had to do was open my trousers, hook your knees over my shoulders, and slide in. Would you like to do that one day? We’ll send Mrs Hudson to the South Pole.” 

John made a little needy noise that he didn’t think he was capable of making. He walked on his tiptoes to ease the pressure of Sherlock’s hand on his bum. 

“I want a kiss,” he said. It sounded like a plaintive plea. Like begging. John didn’t care. He was certain Sherlock wanted that from him. Sherlock guided him to sit on the stairs first, made John pull his feet up a step so his legs would spread open in a more pleasing fashion. Then he kissed him. He kissed John all over, bathed him with tongue until John was arching his hips off the stairs and begging again. Begging for Sherlock’s fingers in his arse and Sherlock’s mouth on his cock. 

“You beg for a fucking so nicely, John.” Sherlock said, pulling a bottle of lube out of his jacket pocket. “I want you to keep talking while I make you come.” 

Afterwards John tried to forget what he’d said during that session. The words that fell from his mouth were uninhibited and needy. He wanted, he said. He needed. He needed Sherlock’s mouth on his cock and he needed it deeper and right there and now. The fingers in his arse stretched, he said. He wanted more, he said. He wanted to be full. He wanted to be opened and he wanted to be fucked. He didn’t care if it hurt. He begged for Sherlock to put his cock in his arse. 

Sherlock wouldn’t. He took great delight in teasing John, in making him squirm and writhe on the stairs, in making John confess all his deepest and most well-guarded desires. 

***

John scrabbled to find purchase on the stairs as Sherlock rutted between his arse cheeks. 

“I want to tie you to my bed. Face down. Just your legs. Just your legs splayed open for me. And you won’t try to get away if I leave your hands free. Because you’re a sweet little fuck and you like it. And leave you there for weeks. And you’ll have pillows under you to raise your sweet little arse in the air. And I’ll fill you up with a new plug every day. Bigger and bigger. Until you cry when you don’t have the feeling of something filling you up. Is that something you’d like, John? Is that dirty enough for you?”

John needed to come again. He needed to feel Sherlock spurt all over his arse and he needed to come again.

“Yes! I’ll do it, Sherlock. Whatever you want.”

Sherlock shouted _fuck_ at the ceiling and John felt come splatter across his back, into his crack. It felt absolutely wicked and John held himself up on one arm to pump at his own cock.

He was going to come. He was going to come all over the stairs with Sherlock plastered against his back. A sound smack landed on his bottom.

“That’s mine,” Sherlock said. He took John’s hand away from his cock and John let out a keening moan of frustration. Sherlock wiggled around and thrust his head between John’s legs, between John’s body and the stairs. “I get to taste it or you don’t come at all.” Sherlock pinched John’s arse hard. He didn’t let go as he took John’s cock into his mouth. 

John fell apart fiercely. His orgasm coursed through his body and shook him in way he didn’t think possible. 

~*~

Sherlock carried John up the stairs, wrapped him in a blanket, and laid him on the sofa. 

“Are you okay?”

“No,” John said. “I’m completely fucking shattered. I feel like I’ve just tangled with a tsunami and lost.” 

Sherlock picked John’s feet up and sat on the sofa. He dug a pair of socks out from between the cushions and pulled them over John’s feet. He began to massage John’s left foot. 

“You’ll sleep with me then? In my bed? I’ll kiss your nose and suck on your fingers if you’d like.” 

“Just sleeping, please,” John said.

“You’ll have to be naked you know.”

“Maybe the nose kisses. We both need to sleep.”

“Let’s go before we’re too tired to get up.”

~*~

It felt wonderful to stretch out under the covers of a real bed. It felt wonderful to be naked in Sherlock’s arms. 

John laughed. 

“I don’t think I even saw your cock. Why didn’t you undress?”

“I must have an air of mystery. I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“Next time,” John said. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was gone before John woke late in the morning. He returned as John was drinking his tea and grunted at John’s hello. He spent until lunch time fiddling with his microscope in the kitchen, checking his email, checking John’s email, and scraping at his violin in an annoying manner. He was fidgety and irritable. John was use to it. Sherlock was crashing back to earth after the high of the case. It was best to leave him alone at these times unless you wanted insults, or wanted to become part of an experiment, or wanted your inner secrets revealed to you. 

After tea Sherlock closed his laptop with a frustrated snap.

“John.”

“I know. You’re bored. I can’t produce clients from thin air, Sherlock.”

“I should teach you to suck cock.”

John closed his eyes for a moment. He slowly shut his book and set it down on the end table. He looked at Sherlock. He wanted to say something about how it surely wasn’t that hard, that he’d had his own cock sucked often enough, but he knew Sherlock didn’t want to hear it. Sherlock got off on pretending John was virginal. 

“I’m nervous,” he said instead. “Will you be gentle with me?”

“I won’t hurt you,” Sherlock said, which was not the same thing at all. “Take off your clothes.”

He wasn’t being offered a choice this time. Sherlock wanted to watch. John pulled his shirt off over his head and let it fall to the rug. 

“Are you going to take yours off?”

“No. Stand up to do the rest.”

John stood awkwardly, fiddling with his belt buckle for longer than was really necessary.

“Why not?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked from John’s crotch to his face and back again.

“It makes you feel vulnerable and nervous if you’re naked while I’m still dressed.”

John licked his lips and opened his buckle. He slid the belt out its loops slowly.

“You like that?”

“Quite. Hurry up. I’ve got a present for you when you’re done.”

That made John nervous. 

“What kind of present?”

If selective hearing was a sporting event Sherlock would have gold medals and a lucrative contract with the best team in England. 

John dropped his trousers and kicked them in the general direction of his shirt. 

“Not exactly elegant, John, are you?”

“Would you like me to be? Are you looking for a strip tease? You did tell me to hurry up.” John slipped his thumb into the waist band of his pants and pulled a little, revealing one hip. He felt slightly ridiculous but he also felt that if Sherlock wanted it he’d feel ridiculous all day long. 

“I want to watch you get hard in your pants. Come here.”

John was getting a bit hard already. Sherlock grabbed him by the thigh and pulled him close, burying his face in John’s crotch and breathing out. Heat. Sherlock’s nose on his belly. His hair tickled. John’s hips rose and Sherlock pulled away. He leaned in close again to press a kiss to the inside of John’s thigh. He ran one finger tip down the hardening length of John’s cock before sitting back in his chair.

“Take them off.” 

John was trembling and he couldn’t tell if it was from desire or nervousness. Sherlock watched as John pushed the pants over his hips and let them fall to his ankles. 

“Give them here,” Sherlock said. 

John stepped out of the briefs and bent to retrieve them with as much grace as he could muster. He put them in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock studied them a moment before pocketing them. 

“On my bed,” he said. His voice was rough and deep. “Your present. Go get it. Bring it here.”

John exhaled a long breath, trying to get his trembling and desire under control as he walked to Sherlock’s bedroom. John was rather surprised. He hadn’t expected an actual present. He didn’t know what he’d expected but it certainly wasn’t a rather large box with a red ribbon around it. 

“When did you get this?”

Sherlock ignored him. “Sit on my lap.”

John sat with the box. The feel of Sherlock’s trousers under his bum making him even more aware of his own nakedness. He pulled the ribbon apart and lifted the lid. 

His first instinct was to laugh. He’d never seen such an array of sex toys outside of a sex shop. Sherlock put his hand in the box though and lifted out a set of plugs. The laughter died in John’s throat.

“We’ll use the smallest one today.”

“I thought I was sucking your cock,” John said.

“Lesson one: you should always be plugged when sucking cock.”

“You—“ John had to stop to clear his throat and lick his lips. His mouth suddenly felt dry. “You weren’t—last night—you didn’t.”

“I wasn’t speaking universally. I was speaking very specifically of you, John Watson. You should always be plugged when sucking my cock.”

John didn’t say anything and Sherlock seemed to read that as understanding. 

“You need to kneel up and straddle me. Face the room.”

John felt dazed as he arranged himself. A mere week ago he’d been trying to block out fantasies of even kissing Sherlock. Now here he was, quite willing, no, eager for Sherlock to spread his arse open. Right now it didn’t feel as if he could ever get enough. 

“Put your hands on the floor,” Sherlock said.

“Oh fuck,” John said. 

Sherlock pinched his bottom and chided him for his language. John leaned over, taking his weight onto his hands and feeling dizzy as blood rushed to his head. He felt helpless and exposed and thrilled beyond measure. 

Sherlock coated him liberally with lube and pressed the toy inside. He rubbed his free hand in soothing circles over John’s belly. 

“That’s it. Almost there.”

It was a small plug. John could certainly feel it but it was not at all uncomfortable. He bit his lip to stop himself for asking for something larger. He wanted Sherlock to take his time, to take the weeks he had promised getting John ready for a fucking. 

Sherlock pulled him up gently, turning John in his lap to kiss his lips and nose and reach down to fondle John’s balls. 

“Don’t look so sad,” Sherlock said.

“Do I look sad? I’m not sad.”

“You look so, so sad. I can’t really tie you to the bed for weeks, John. It would be impractical. I can do it for several hours though. Would that make you feel better?”

John smiled. He leaned in to suck on Sherlock’s ear. 

“You are so much fun,” he said. 

“Lessons first though,” Sherlock said, pushing John gently away and onto to the floor and gathering him up between his knees. “The toys are yours, John. You can and should play with them whenever you want.”

John visualized himself sitting by the fire on a cold evening, trying to fit one of the larger toys inside of him while Sherlock was trying to think deep thoughts. He flattered himself that he might be able distract the world’s only consulting detective from his work. He imagined Sherlock’s terrible annoyance and stopped himself from thinking of the things Sherlock might do to him in his fit of pique.

Sherlock was smiling knowingly at him when John opened his eyes. 

“Stop it. You can’t actually read my mind.”

“It’s a pity. Isn’t it? I’ll have to experiment. Try things out on you. See if you like them. I’ll have to try everything.” Before John could consider that or reply Sherlock began the lesson. 

He was a very patient and thorough instructor. Lecturing John on the various ways to use his tongue and hands, instructing him to hum on occasion, soothing his fingers over John’s neck to relax his throat, letting John try again and again to take him deep without panicking. He kept up a running monologue of praise and encouragement. 

_You’re doing so well. Such a pretty face for fucking. If you practice every day you’ll get so good at it. No, don’t wipe the drool away. That’s how you’re suppose to look when you’re having your face fucked._

“I should come on your face this time, John. It’ll be—“

Sherlock pulled away. John closed his eyes and felt the come hit his cheek. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, pulling at John’s arm so John scrambled up and sat in Sherlock’s lap again. He let Sherlock breathe for a few moments. John could feel the come on his face but he thought he ought not to wipe it away just yet. Sherlock would want to see.

When Sherlock opened his eyes he trailed a finger through the mess. John closed his eyes. He was trembling again. He wanted to be touched. Sherlock’s finger slid over his cheek, back and forth, painting? No, writing. Sherlock was writing his initials in come on John’s cheek. 

“See John, we can’t indulge in every single fantasy. If you had your way you’d be tied to the bed for weeks and if I had mine I would brand you. Just a very little brand, no more than a centimeter. My initials on your hip.”

“Fuck,” John breathed. “Take me to your bed. I don’t care for how long.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is more smut.

“You’re ready for another,” Sherlock said. He gave a little pat to John’s bottom and eased the plug out. It was the second plug Sherlock had put in him and it had taken a bit getting used to. Sherlock pulled gently on his upper arms, having John kneel in the bed to ease his back. 

John didn’t know how long he’d been tied to the bed posts. Sherlock had taken John’s watch and the bedroom clock and closed the window curtains to—well, to fuck with John’s mind. John didn’t care. He had no place to be. There was nowhere else he wanted to be but right where he was. 

Sherlock held a cup of cool water to John’s lips. John smiled gratefully, perhaps a little sappily, at Sherlock and took a sip. Sherlock set the glass down on the bedside table and climbed onto the bed.

“How are you doing?” he wanted to know. 

John didn’t answer. Sherlock didn’t really need an answer about John’s emotional state. If John wasn’t happy he wouldn’t be looking at Sherlock with eyelids heavy with lust. If John didn’t want to be exactly where he was he would have untied his ankles and gone to read the newspapers. Sherlock trusted him to say what he needed, to set boundaries. Sherlock hadn’t come close to any of John’s boundaries yet. John wasn’t even sure he knew where his boundaries were. Someone seemed to have redrawn them while Sherlock had been kissing him in the truck.

“Let me check you over.”

This is what Sherlock had been inquiring about, the state of John’s penis. He liked to “inspect” it when he allowed John to stretch, make sure it was doing okay, that it hadn’t gone numb while it had been pinned between John’s body and the pile of pillows. 

“Can you feel that?” Sherlock asked after he’d sucked gently on the tip of it.

What he really wanted was to tease the living fuck out of John before stuffing him full with another plug and leaving him in a state of high-pitched arousal. 

“Not really,” John said. He was trembling again. He’d gone to war, and been shot, and hunted down serial killers, but he’d never trembled as much in his whole life as he had in this one day. 

Sherlock tutted. “I hope it’s not broken. Sometimes if you massage it—“

John tipped his head back as Sherlock stroked his cock until it was fully erect. He wanted to come but he also wanted to just stay here, in this dim, endless twilight Sherlock had created for them, a place without time, a place where he was always seconds away from crashing into ecstasy. 

“Can you feel it now, John?”

“Yes,” John rasped. There was no denying that he could feel it. 

“Show me what it feels like.”

John tipped his head back up and opened his eyes. “Show you?” Oh, Sherlock had his trousers open. 

“Do you remember your lesson?”

“I need my arse plugged,” John said and immediately blushed scarlet. Those were not words he’d ever thought would fall from his mouth. He did need it though. It was the first part of the lesson. And he wanted it. God help him, he did want it. 

Sherlock kissed his heated cheeks and called him brilliant. “I actually would have forgotten. You learn lessons well, John.” 

When Sherlock held up the third plug John shifted uneasily. It looked big.

“You’re prepared for it. You can take it but we can go back to one of the others if you’d like.”

“No. I want to try it.”

That made Sherlock smile a wide, sloppy grin that made John pleased with his decision. He bent forward and gasped and moaned as Sherlock worked the toy inside of him. Sherlock liked him to be loud. 

“How do you feel, John?”

“Uh!” John said. “Exposed. Just fucking open and lewd and titillated and full.”

“You look positively indecent,” Sherlock said. “It’s a very good look on you.” 

“I want to suck your cock,” John said. He was just going to say all the things he’d never thought he’d say. Sherlock found this idea quite agreeable and climbed back onto the bed, leaning back against the pillows and drawing John’s head down to his cock. 

“Please undress,” John said.

“No.”

“Why?”

“The air of mystery, John. You need to have something to look forward to.”

“I’m looking forward to having you fuck me up the arse. I think that’s enough for now.”

“I’ll unbutton my shirt if you’d like but that’s all.”

Sherlock began to unbutton himself. John followed his fingers with his tongue, lapping Sherlock’s stomach, navel, sternum, and nipples as they were revealed to him.

“Don’t get distracted,” Sherlock said. 

John ignored him and took his time. The plug would need to be in for awhile and kissing Sherlock’s chest was a better way to pass the time than squirming around on the pile of pillows while Sherlock watched him with a look of smug satisfaction on his face. Evil fucking brilliant bastard. 

~*~

“More,” John said. The sound was muffled by the pillows.

“That’s as wide as you’re going tonight I’m afraid.”

“Don’t take it out then. I want it in me when you—“

Sherlock’s voice was cool and controlled. “When I what?”

“I dunno. Jerk me off. Blow me.” John couldn’t think of any other ways he could come short of fucking Sherlock. He didn’t think that was on the table. 

“Is that all you can think of?”

Sherlock was holding John’s balls gently in the palm of his hand. It was really fucking distracting. 

“Yes. No. I want one of those. I want you to touch me.”

“I could make you hump my leg. I could rub my cock against yours. I could make you do it yourself while I fingered you.” 

Sherlock slid the plug out of him and John moaned a little. He wanted it. He felt for a moment like Sherlock might get his wish to see him cry because he wasn’t filled properly.

“Poor John. Do you know you’ve been tied here for three hours? No wonder you’re in such a state. I said you couldn’t go wider. I can go smaller though. Would you like that? Nice and comfy?”

Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed a smaller plug in and began to fuck him with it. John gripped the sheets and cried out. His hips bucked forward into the pillows. 

Sherlock stilled. “You’re not to rut the pillows, John. Understood?”

John shifted, raising his hips a bit and tucking his head down so he could look down his body to his cock. He could see Sherlock between his legs but he couldn’t see what he was doing. He wanted to see. He wanted to see himself like this. 

“Lie down. I’ve taken photos. You can look at them later.” 

John realized that should probably make him angry. He might actually be angry about it later but just then it turned him on even more.

“This one vibrates, John. Don’t rut the pillows.”

Sherlock turned it on. John saw white. His toes curled and words were falling from his mouth, or maybe they weren’t words, maybe they were just short, harsh barks of pleasure. John didn’t care. Sherlock stopped the vibrations.

“You’re rutting the pillows, John. If you do it again I’ll have to spank you and I may not let you come at all. Do you understand?”

John let out something that was half snarl and half piteous moan. He didn’t know he could make sounds like that. His face burned. No one had threatened to spank him since he was five. There was nothing appealing about being spanked. Except it would be Sherlock and John wondered if Sherlock would leave him tied to the bed or pull John over his knee or--

“If it’s too much for you we can stop,” Sherlock said. “I’ll let you get yourself off while I watch.”

“No,” John said. He was ending this encounter with his cock in Sherlock’s throat. “You’re going to suck me off when we’re done.”

Sherlock laughed quietly. “Bossy,” he said. He turned the vibrator back on. John tensed, trying to keep absolutely still on the pillows. If he moved his hips Sherlock would know John wanted it. Sherlock would read him and cut the ribbons that held John to the bed and pull John over his knees. It would be the last word in humiliating. Fuck, John wanted it. 

He began to thrust himself against the pillows. 

Sherlock allowed it for a count of three. He shut off the vibrator but left the plug inside. John was breathing harshly. The sound of it was filling up the whole room, maybe the whole world. He was sweaty and flushed and he needed. He heard the snip of the scissors as Sherlock cut his bonds.

“I warned you I would take you apart, kitten.”

Sherlock pet John’s hair. He made John roll over and stretch out his sore legs, taking his John’s feet into his hands one by one and massaging his ankles. 

“You didn’t even pull on your restraints. I knew you’d like it.”

~*~

“How many?” John wanted to know when they were in the kitchen and Sherlock was sitting in a chair waiting patiently for John to bend over his knees. 

Sherlock smiled. “Until it’s enough. Until you’re red or until you say stop.”

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do. And I’d never damage you beyond repair. You won’t even feel this by tomorrow evening. You do want this, John.”

“You know you can’t brand me, right?”

“I know, John. I can think of enough other things to do to you. Don’t worry.” 

John took forty and he didn’t say stop. He fucking loved it. He loved the feel of Sherlock’s hard hands on him, the way he pinched and petted John’s bottom and moved the plug inside of him when they were taking a rest. John would have let him go on. He didn’t how long. He hadn’t had nearly enough when Sherlock made him get up and lie back on the kitchen table.

Sherlock climbed on too, opening his trousers and pressing their dicks together and wrapping his hand around both of them. 

“I’ll suck you off tomorrow. I want it like this. Do you want it like this?”

John was too far gone to answer. He thrust up into Sherlock’s hand, his orgasm mounting, coursing through him, shaking him and releasing him until he was left wrung out and limp on the kitchen table. 

A few moments later Sherlock collapsed on top of him.

~*~

“Move,” John said. “Get off of me right now.”

“Something wrong?”

“Yeah, you’re a giant and you’re squashing me flat.”

Sherlock got up and dragged John after him. They limped to Sherlock’s bed and fell on it. 

“Tomorrow I’ll put you in a cock ring.”

John didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the energy to say anything.

“I’ve got you a leather one but it’s not precisely what I wanted. I want to get you one with a gem stone on it. Maybe a ruby. How do you feel about nipple clamps? I might have to have them custom made. Little silver clamps with rubies dangling from them.”

“Sherlock, shut up.”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know right now. I’m sleeping.” 

That was nonsense and illogical and John expected Sherlock to point this out and continue prattling on forever and ever. Maybe he was in love though. Or maybe he was just tired too. Whatever it was, he said no more. He just dropped a kiss onto John’s shoulder and John dropped off to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

In the morning the cupboards were bare of anything edible. Sherlock was neatly dressed in a suit and staring at the wall. John took a twenty pound note from Sherlock’s wallet and went to the shops. Bread and butter, tea and milk, beans and greens, and home again to find Sherlock gone and a note on the kettle.

_Gone to milk a cow._

A cash cow. He’d taken a dull case because it paid well. It must have been the last twenty quid or close to. 

_Where?_ John texted, because Sherlock was not above zooming off to Uzbekistan on a moment’s notice leaving behind only a five word note.

The kettle had boiled by the time his phone buzzed. 

_Cambridge._ Not too far. He could be home tonight, though Sherlock might neglect to mention that the case would take months and months. 

_Will you be home tonight?_

_Doubtful. Stop texting. I’m thinking._

Not precisely the sort of morning-after conversation that lovers dream about but it would have to do. 

John tried as best he could to fill the empty hours, but the flat stayed tidy without Sherlock there to wreck havoc. The book he was reading seemed flat and dull. There was nothing on the TV that would hold his interest for more than a minute or two. John’s mind kept replaying the events of the previous day. He was grinning like a school-boy. He finally gave up and curled up in his chair to daydream. He didn’t want to think too much about what had already happened. He was irrationally fearful that the memories would grow thin if replayed too often, like an old cassette tape that wore out on your favorite song, or a painting exposed to the light of day washing out and rendering dim. 

He thought ahead, imagining what Sherlock would do to him after his absence. He felt a pleasant blush of embarrassment heat his face and chest as he imagined Sherlock demanding that John hump his leg. John would be kneeling on the floor, plug in his arse, cock hard and wet, and John would do it. He’d blush scarlet and tremble and close his eyes but he would do it, immediately, because Sherlock wanted it and, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, John wanted it too. 

His phone buzzed and John opened one eye to read the text.

_Have you played with your toys? ___

No. John didn’t want to. He wanted Sherlock to do it, to be responsible for preparing him. That seemed too much to admit to so John simply typed _No_ in response.

_Play with your toys. Send me a photo._

John swallowed. He wasn’t doing that. Something could go wrong. The photo could go to Harry, or Mycroft, or, God forbid, Mrs. Hudson by mistake. He didn’t know which would be worse. Harry would immediately post it on the internet or email it to all their relations and blame it on the drink when she sobered up. Mycroft would send a car so he could decline John’s advances condescendingly and politely. Mrs. Hudson would either die of heart failure or take it in stride and bring it up in conversation for ever after. _John is so limber for a man his age. Your leg’s not bothering you much if you can manage that position, is it, John dear?_ Fuck no. 

_I want you to do it._ John typed and hit send quickly before he lost his nerve.

 _Romantic._ Sherlock sent back. John could read the sarcasm in that reply. Or was it sarcasm? Why was it sarcasm? Was it romantic? He knew he loved Sherlock and he was obviously inflicted with a shattering lust for the man but--. John stopped. He didn’t want to think about it. 

_There are other things in the toy box. I want a picture in twenty minutes. You wouldn’t want to misbehave, John. Would you?_

John swore. Sherlock would always get his way one way or another. John was defenseless against such evil fucking lovely genius. 

The toy box was tucked under Sherlock’s bed. John honestly didn’t know what to expect to find. He’d been so dazed with lust the night before that he’d only registered a jumble of delicious sin before Sherlock had pulled out the plugs and taken the box away. He remembered Sherlock saying that they’d have to try everything and the contents of the box certainly prepared them for a variety of activities. 

John riffled through box, setting aside things he’d have to be talked into using while under the influence of debilitating lust, burying other items that looked dangerous or he knew he would never allow. He actually had no idea what some of the things were used for and these he put in another pile to research later. 

Ten minutes had passed and John sat back on his heels realizing he was clutching a rather life-like looking phallus and a tube of lipstick. He smiled.

He waited until the last possible moment to send the photo, double checking about a zillion times that it was only addressed to Sherlock. He wasn’t going to wait longer than that. He wasn’t going to misbehave just to see what Sherlock would do. He wasn’t going to let Sherlock have his own way about everything. 

He let another three minutes slide past before he hit send. His heart hammered in his chest.

_Pretty little fuck. I’ll make you suck lipstick off my cock. You were late though. We’ll discuss it later. Bye._

John swore and growled and made obscene hand gestures at his phone. When that accomplished nothing he got up to put the phallus in the dishwasher. 

~*~

The next day felt like a dream. John spent most of it walking aimlessly through the streets. If he stayed in the flat it felt like he was waiting for Sherlock to return and the minutes crept by so slowly. He told himself that if he went out Sherlock would be sure to come home. It was torture, this first, heady rush of love or lust or whatever it was. His mind was so very preoccupied with Sherlock. 

So he wandered and forgot to eat and then popped into a pub and wolfed down a lunch he forgot to taste. In the late afternoon he wandered through The Tate and lost himself in a French landscape, in a patch of blue sky, sighed at Ophelia in the water, and then turned to wander homewards. He didn’t let himself hope that Sherlock would be back. 

Sherlock wasn’t and John knew he had allowed himself to hope for it when he felt the disappointment. He tried to shake it off but it wouldn’t go and he had one moment of thinking he would get on the next train to Cambridge and run through the streets yelling Sherlock’s name. He didn’t of course. He made tea and then, because the flat seemed so empty and cold, he did something he hadn’t done since the weeks after Sherlock had jumped from Bart’s. 

He took his tea onto the roof of Baker Street. He used to sit up there and look down on Sherlock’s beloved city. He had felt closer to Sherlock there, like Sherlock haunted all the rooftops of London. John could almost see him some nights, carelessly leaping crevasses that his human body wouldn’t have been able to manage. It almost made him happy, then, to think of Sherlock unfettered, set free of the body that Sherlock seemed to struggle and rage against in the days when John first met him. 

He had a painful hope that Sherlock might tiptoe up from the Thames one night, leaping rooftops like a boy might leap on stones in a river, and materialize, made flesh once more, on the roof of Baker Street. 

John felt his disappointment fade away, his longing ease, as he watched the light sink from the sky and rise up from the city. Sherlock would be back with him soon.

~*~

“A purely academic mystery, John. No danger but still quite interesting.”

John woke. He wondered how long Sherlock had been talking to him. 

“Paid quite well. You won’t have to worry for awhile. Not about anything.” 

Those were sweet words _You won’t have to worry for awhile. Not about anything._

“Say that again,” John said, his voice thick with sleep. 

Sherlock put a kiss on John’s nose. “You missed me.”

“Yes.” John reached for him and found that his hands were tied to the bed. His bonds weren’t tight, he could have slipped them if he’d wanted to. He relaxed back into the pillows and let Sherlock kiss, and undress him, and crouch low over John’s face.   
“It’s called teabagging, John. Shall I teach you how?”

John knew what it was called. He opened his mouth and let Sherlock teach him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock loves to play a role and he likes seeing John in a bit of distress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose not to put warnings on this fic mostly because I'm always sure I'll miss warning for something and upset people. However, there are things here that may squick or possibly trigger people.

“Would you like it as much if you weren’t being punished?”

John drew in a sharp breath as Sherlock pressed his fingers into the abused flesh of John’s bottom. He sighed when Sherlock eased the pressure and smoothed his hand down between John’s legs to caress his balls. 

“What do you mean?” John asked. Sherlock, ever the data collector, loved to ask questions during sex. He especially liked it when John was too distracted to comprehend properly. Someday Sherlock wanted to distract him so much that John would struggle to answer the simplest questions, where he lived, what day it was. 

“I mean, do you like being punished, or would you do this for me just because I wanted it.”

Sherlock trailed a finger up John’s crack and John let out a small cry of longing and dismay. He didn’t want to answer that question. It was one thing to admit that he liked having his cock sucked and his prostate stimulated. A man’s body was built for those things to be enjoyable. He couldn’t help that. 

Being bent over Sherlock’s knee and punished was another matter entirely. What turned John on was being made to permit it, admitting in one way or another that he liked it. 

“Both,” John said. “All of it. I’ll do whatever you want.” He started to rut himself against Sherlock’s thigh and Sherlock continued with the spanking. 

~*~

His cane was leaning against the front door of the flat. John carried it up the stairs, taking them two at time to prove he did not need his cane waiting for him.

“Ah, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said looking up from the newspaper. “Right on time. Why don’t you have a seat.” 

“What’s going on? What are we doing?” Something was off. John didn’t know what that was yet and it made him nervous. 

“It’s your weekly therapy appointment, John. Nothing to be nervous about. I thought we’d talk about your limp today and discuss some treatments I’ve been reading about.”

John felt like his brain was racing, trying frantically to keep up, make sense. That wasn’t really an odd thing to have happen around Sherlock. 

“Is this to do with sex?”

Sherlock allowed himself to look surprised for a second before controlling his features. “Do you feel your limp is connected to sex, John?” Sherlock wasn’t going to break character then. He often didn’t feel it necessary to explain himself or discuss ideas before jumping in. If John didn’t want to join in then Sherlock assumed he simply wouldn’t. 

John licked his lips and heaved out a breath. There was no harm in playing along until—well until he didn’t want to anymore. He sat in his chair. 

“I’ve never really thought about it. I don’t see why it would be.”

Sherlock smiled at him. 

“That’s what we’ll try to figure out. Tell me about your leg. Is it painful?”

No. It wasn’t painful anymore but that answer wouldn’t add anything to Sherlock’s game.

“On occasion,” John said. That was true enough. 

“I see. Where’s the pain? Is it in your hip or your buttocks or on the inside of your thigh?”

The pain had always been in John’s hip. “A bit in my backside, but mostly in my thigh.”

“I see,” Sherlock typed some notes into his laptop. “Where precisely? Near the knee or closer to the groin?” 

“Up,” John said. “Up high. In the joint, like.” 

“Touch where it hurts.” 

John had to spread his legs a little to get at the proper place. Sherlock winced in pity. 

“That’s a bad spot for an injury, even a phantom one. I’ll need to take a look at it.” 

“There’s nothing there,” John said quickly. “It’s all in my head.” 

“I know it’s a little embarrassing, John, but I am your therapist. Anything we do here is completely confidential.” 

John let himself blush. “I’ll need to remove my trousers.”

“That’s perfectly alright, John. Think of it as a trust building exercise. You need to trust me implicitly if your therapy is to work.”

“Alright then.”

John stood, removed his trousers, and sat back in his chair. Sherlock scooted his own chair closer to take a look.

“I can’t see the spot you were pointing at, John. I’ll need to spread your legs and lift your feet on to the chair.”

Sherlock knelt before him and guided John’s feet onto the chair. John closed his eyes. He felt himself slipping into his role, the shy, naïve character that Sherlock wanted him to be in this moment. That character was going to be manipulated and molested and used and John was going to allow it. 

Sherlock pushed aside John’s boxer briefs to get a good look at the joint. 

“Here?” he said, pressing with his fingers.

“Lower,” John said and let out a hiss as Sherlock pressed again. “Yes, right there.” 

“Okay,” Sherlock said, still pressing and massaging. “There’s no injury, John. Nothing I can see or feel.” 

“I know,” John said. “It just hurts.”

“I’ll take a photo. Sometimes seeing photographic evidence that one is okay can be helpful.” 

John’s eyes snapped open. “A photo? You’ll delete it after you show me?”

“Everything’s confidential, John. I’ll need it for your file but no one will see it other than me.”

“Okay,” John said. He felt ridiculous sitting with his legs spread open while Sherlock went to fetch the camera and then fiddled with it for an unreasonably long time. 

“You’ll have to pull the pants a little to the side, I’m afraid. I can’t get a clear shot.” 

John was blushing, too hot. He could feel his cock starting to harden. He pulled the pants aside and let Sherlock take the photo. 

Sherlock was full of praise. “Well done, John. That took a lot of trust. Would you like to see?” 

John sat up because Sherlock was moving to sit in the chair with him. It was an invasion of his personal space and felt like a crossing of professional boundaries but John supposed he had just let Sherlock take a picture of him in his underwear so maybe that was okay. He had to work on his trust issues. 

The picture made John’s face heat again and Sherlock rubbed his knee. 

“Does it help? Seeing this evidence?”

“Not really,” John said. 

“Well, we’ll just have to keep trying things until we find something that works. I’ve a long list of treatments we can try. Some are a little extreme but we’ll start with the simple ones.”

“Extreme?” John said.

“Trust, John.” 

Sherlock got off the chair and knelt on the floor again, putting his hands on John’s knees and spreading them apart. 

“I’ll need to look at your bottom. You said it hurt there too.”

Unfortunately, Sherlock couldn’t get a proper look at John’s bottom in this position. John’s underwear kept getting in the way.

“Why don’t you kneel up and I’ll just take down the back of your pants?”

John let out a moan of arousal that Sherlock chose to misinterpret. 

“Don’t fret. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

It wasn’t very quick. Sherlock slid John’s pants halfway down his arse and stopped.

“You’re trembling, John. Shall we take a rest?”

“No. I’ll be okay.”

Sherlock reached between John’s legs to massage the injured spot. 

“Settle, John.” Sherlock slid the pants down further and left them just below John’s buttocks. “No visible injury, just a rather pert little bum. Where does it hurt?”

“Low,” John said. “Near the joint and—over a bit, towards the middle.” 

“Near the cleavage?”

“Yes,” John said. 

Sherlock touched him there with one finger. 

“Here?” 

“Yes.”

“Down inside it?”

“Yes,” John said. “Every where all round there.”

Sherlock used two fingers to spread John’s cheeks open and get a good look. John was fully aroused now. He wanted to be touched everywhere but he had a feeling he might be waiting awhile. 

“I know you’re uncomfortable, John. I’ll just take the photo and then we’ll be done with this. I’ll need you to hold yourself open for the camera. It’s important for you to see there’s nothing wrong there.”

John buried his face in the cushion of the chair when he spread himself open. It was humiliating. He was allowing himself to be humiliated and he didn’t want it to stop. 

“You’ll need to look at the camera, John. It’s important that you see your face in the picture.” 

John was panting and sweating and his eyes were wide and dark as he turned to face the camera.

“Good, John. Nothing to be ashamed about. You actually look quite lovely like this.” Sherlock took the photo and then pulled John’s pants back up, patting his bottom gently when they were back in place. “You can sit. We need to discuss some treatment options.” 

John sat. He didn’t want to. He wanted Sherlock to keep on touching him but that was not the game they were playing. Sherlock was hooking the camera up to the TV. He was going to put John’s picture up on the big screen so John would cringe and die of shame and burst into a flame of arousal. John brought his knees up to his chest and hugged them. 

He wanted to hear Sherlock’s treatment options. He hoped that one of them would be stretching exercises to make him more flexible so John could suck his own cock when Sherlock was being a fantastic fucking tease. John squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get rid of that thought. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to actually do that. The image came to him of Sherlock holding his head down, pressing his head down onto his own cock. He opened his eyes. 

He was greeted with the sight of his spread arse on the television screen.

“No. It doesn’t help. Take it down please.”

“I think we should leave it up for a bit. You’ve only glanced at it for a couple of seconds.” Sherlock settled in his armchair. 

“We’ll talk about treatments while we let it sink in.” 

John looked away from the TV. He was sweating.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s hot in here. I’m taking off my jumper.”

“I’m terribly sorry. The heat in this office is disgraceful. Please take off your shirt as well. It’s important for you to be comfortable.”

“I’m okay,” John said.

“John! We are working on your trust issues. I’ve just seen your naked little bum. I’m your therapist. What possible objection could you have to removing your shirt if it will make you more comfortable?”

“Sorry,” John said. He removed his shirt. 

“We’ll have to do some more trust building exercises, I see. Well, we’ll get to that later. Right now I want to talk to you about Pain Replacement Therapy. It sounds a bit frightening so let me explain. The patient, you, allows a trusted individual to inflict pain upon them. When successful the patient focuses on the real pain and the phantom pain that has been plaguing them disappears. Now, we don’t want the real pain to cause any damage, of course, so it is often administered in the form of a spanking or paddling.” 

Yes, John knew that was coming. Sherlock would not miss an opportunity to get John over his knee, wiggling and squirming and asking for more.

“What else?” he said.

“That doesn’t appeal to you?”

“You said there were options.”

“Well, that is the least invasive procedure, John. I mentioned that some of the methods get a little extreme but—some patients have shown results with anal stimulation therapy. Again, this treatment aims to focus the mind on other sensations but it has the added benefit of relieving built up stress in some patients. In fact, some researchers have combined the two treatments with satisfying results.”

John wanted that. Badly. But he made himself play the game. Sherlock loved games.

“It sounds—intense.”

“It is. It’s embarrassing and you’ll be very exposed to me and it may take awhile to achieve the proper results. You’ll have to trust me, John. Do you?” 

“Yes,” John said.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is an examination table in 221C.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I have not put warnings on this fic but there are, perhaps, things that may be squicky or triggering here. Proceed with caution and I hope you have fun.

They started with an anal stimulation exercise.

“We’ll go slow. It will take longer but I shouldn’t like to overwhelm you.”

John was already overwhelmed. They were in 221C. Mrs Hudson was away for the week. Sherlock had had a fucking examination table delivered and set up in the unused flat. The thing already had restraints hanging off of it. 

John was shamefully aroused at the sight of it. 

“What are you—What are you going to do to me? God, what are doing to me?”

Sherlock let his therapist’s mask fall for a moment. His eyes raked John’s body. His gaze was hungry and John thought for a moment that the game would end, that Sherlock would take him right then and there. 

Sherlock stepped closer and put one finger to John’s lips.

“Shush. We need a trust building exercise. Shall we try kissing? 

John almost wanted to say no. Closing his eyes and letting Sherlock in like that would destroy the fragile hold he had on his self control. 

“I’m going to feel inside of you. I’m going to touch you in your most private places. I ought to be able to kiss you. I ought to be able to touch you anywhere if you trust me.” 

John reached out to grab Sherlock’s shirt and draw him closer. He was going to lose himself. He was going to shatter and he didn’t fucking care if he was ever put back together again as long as he was allowed to shatter like this. 

Sherlock kissed him and John surrendered. He let his hips rise to press against Sherlock, and he let his breath come fast and hard, and he let eager little grunts push out of his throat. Sherlock slid one hand down the back of John’s pants and pulled his mouth away from John’s. 

“It’s perfectly natural to be aroused. It will make the treatment far easier, in fact. Shall we continue?”

There was something in Sherlock’s voice and expression that asked for John to end the game, to let Sherlock ravish him now. But John wanted more. He wanted everything Sherlock had promised him. 

“Yes,” he said. “I’m ready now.”

Sherlock left his hand in John’s pants and guided him over to the table. He gave John’s bum a little squeeze before taking his hand away.

“Hop up. On your knees. Head on the table.”

John felt comforted in that position. His legs were tucked beneath him. His arms curled around his head. 

“Up,” Sherlock said, pushing on John’s bum to make him raise it. He slid John’s pants down John’s thighs but didn’t remove them. He tugged on John’s elbow. “Arms by your sides.”

He felt so exposed like that. The paper on the exam table crinkled with every shift of John’s body. He wanted something to do with his hands, something to hold or—his fingers twitched restlessly. 

“Just some lube and my finger and the tiniest plug to start with.” 

The lube was cool, centering all of John’s attention on his hole, on Sherlock’s finger circling there and pressing the lube into him. He wiggled back onto it.

“Still,” Sherlock said. “You shouldn’t take too much at once.” 

“Why?” John whispered. He wanted it. 

“It’s the treatment, John. We must proceed so carefully. We wouldn’t want to damage you.”

John wanted to. He wanted to be damaged beyond repair, to be used and degraded so thoroughly that he wouldn’t recognize himself at the end of this. He shut his eyes. He didn’t want to think like that. He didn’t want to think of this ever ending. 

“It feels nice. That’s the best part of this treatment for me. You feel so very nice and warm inside. You’ve got a tight little hole.” 

The plug Sherlock pressed into him was tiny. John could barely feel it.

“Tell me what you feel.”

“Wet. It’s just wet.” 

“What else?”

“I want to be fucked so badly.” 

“Good,” Sherlock said. “You’re not thinking of the pain in your leg. Let’s get your arse a bit warm while you get use to the sensation of being wet down there.” 

Sherlock pulled John’s pants back up and helped him off the table.

“You must move carefully. Lean on me if the pain in your leg is too much for you.” 

John did. He imagined the pain back into his hip and leaned heavily on Sherlock, pressing against him in as many places as he could. 

It was almost familiar, nearly comforting, to be pulled over Sherlock’s knees. They hadn’t played like this more than a handful of times but John already felt like he belonged there. The thought startled and shamed him and he rubbed himself against Sherlock’s thigh. 

“Be as still as you can,” Sherlock said and John stilled himself, breathing more heavily to compensate for the lack of movement. “We’ll just warm you up. See if it works. Don’t be disappointed if it doesn’t. Sometimes these treatments can take days.” Sherlock pulled John’s pants down again. He liked that part, revealing John. 

Sherlock had never spanked John with anything but his bare hands. John knew it wouldn’t be enough today. Not for either of them. He’d seen the collection of floggers and paddles that Sherlock had bought for him. He sometimes crept in to look at them, hold them, when Sherlock was out of the flat. It felt forbidden even though Sherlock had told him to play with the toys. He hadn’t meant those, though. Those were specifically for Sherlock to use on John. 

John closed his eyes as Sherlock swatted him. It didn’t really hurt, not yet. The humiliation was stronger than the actual pain. He wondered how he looked to Sherlock, how his arse looked, if it shook obscenely when he was slapped. He imagined Sherlock would record it one day. Make John watch it while he sat naked in Sherlock’s lap. 

“How do you feel?” 

Sherlock was running his hand over John’s bottom, dipping down between John’s legs to gently pet his pubic hair, pulling away, and pinching experimentally at John’s arse. John loved this part of the game; the lulls in the punishment when Sherlock coddled and teased him a bit. 

“A little bit better. I think it will work if we keep going.” 

“That’s encouraging,” Sherlock whispered. “I so want to be the one that fixes you.” 

John was both glad and disappointed that he couldn’t see Sherlock’s face as he said that. He thought that maybe Sherlock had stepped out character for a moment. He slid to his knees on the floor. Sherlock’s face held no emotion. It was a mask, but not the mask of his character. Sherlock had tidied his expression, worried he’d revealed too much.

“You already have,” John said. Then he trembled. He looked away. He didn’t want to talk anymore about it. 

“Back up on the table. We’ve a ways to go yet, I’m afraid.” 

John let Sherlock help him to his feet and slipped easily back into the game. He felt safe there. Which was mad but perhaps he ought to stop pretending to be normal. Normal had never suited him much. This did. 

Sherlock had John lie on his back this time. 

“I’m afraid we’ll need to remove your pants entirely this time. Would you like a sheet for your lap? I’m worried about you becoming overheated but—“

“No,” John said. “I’m rather warm and I want—I want to be exposed to you. It helps with—“

“Trust issues? Very good, John.” 

Sherlock rewarded him with a kiss to his inner thigh as he placed John’s feet in the stirrups. 

“Is this rented? The table?”

“No. It folds up if I’m not using this room for examinations,” Sherlock said. “It will be here if we need it again.” 

Sherlock removed the tiny plug from John’s body and set it on a small metal table. He picked up the next and held it up so John’s could see it as he coated it with lube. It was bigger. It was big enough to make John shiver with delight. 

Sherlock stroked his thigh. 

“So eager. I’ve never had such a cooperative patient. Do you receive enough attention in your private life, John? Is someone looking after your needs?”

Sherlock began to press the plug in but stopped when John didn’t answer.

“Not—not really. I need more. I need so much.”

Sherlock slid the plug in further. “What makes you say that? Do you feel you need some sort of release? Do you feel like you need to be made to cry?”

John knew Sherlock wanted that from him but he hadn’t been able to manage it yet. 

“I can’t.”

“But you want to.”

It wasn’t a question but John answered anyway. 

“Yes.”

Sherlock slid the plug all the way in and then tapped the end of it, seeming pleased with both himself and John. 

“You look stretched and vulnerable. How do you feel?”

John let his head loll on the stiff paper. He felt obscene and perfect. 

“Comfortable.”

Sherlock frowned. “You have a higher tolerance for pain and degradation than I had anticipated, John. We might have to resort to more extreme measures.”

John just panted and Sherlock fucked him with the plug three or four times before stepping abruptly away to open a cupboard on the far side of the room. He came back with a rubber paddle. John squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment, then opened them and licked his lips.

“You shouldn’t move about too much with that plug inside of you. Not until you get used to it anyway.”

Okay. But. John didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t know what was coming and that meant danger and his heart racing and all his senses heightened and on red alert. 

“Put your legs in the air.”

John didn’t want to, and he did, and God bless Sherlock for making him feel like this. Vivid. Aware. Alive. He hesitated but he lifted his feet from the stirrups and curled his knees into his chest. 

Sherlock grabbed his ankles as best he could with one hand and used his other to bring the paddle down hard. John let out a sharp cry at the stinging pain.

“It’s important that I can see your face while you’re enduring this, John. It makes it easier to judge the effectiveness of your treatment.”

He brought the paddle down again and John’s hips rose from the table. 

“Is this what you needed?”

John was too busy trying to breathe to answer. Sherlock pushed John’s feet closer to his head and reached down to twist and push and pull at the plug. 

“Is this what you need, John?”

“Yes!”

“What else? Tell me what else you need.”

“I need you to make me cry.” John’s face burned and he felt a sharp spike of arousal. He thrust hips up into the air and back down, fucking himself on the plug. 

Sherlock’s smile was evil and magnificent. He raised the paddle so that John could see it.

“Until you cry?”

John closed his eyes and turned his head away. Sherlock’s first hit wasn’t full strength. It was a warning shot, a dare for John to stop him. John didn’t and the next strokes were harder and harder until John lost count of them. There was nothing in the world but the pain in his arse, and the plug moving inside him on each hit, and the clench of his jaw keeping the shouts from bursting out of his mouth.

“Look at me, John. Give in.”

John clenched his eyes shut even tighter before opening and turning his head to look up at Sherlock. 

The tears came then. Maybe later John would feel shame but just then it felt too good. 

Sherlock hit him three more times and then let the paddle fall to the floor. He stepped back for a moment, running his hands through his hair and breathing deeply. John was reminded of the night at the pool, the night he’d nearly passed out in Sherlock’s arms and Sherlock hadn’t made him talk about it. They’d never talked about that night except to giggle over it and God they were so fucked up. But they were together and it felt right. 

Sherlock came back to his side. He pushed gently at John’s knees to get him to uncurl, lie flat, and used his tongue to wipe the tears from John’s face as they fell. 

“I’m very fond of you,” he said and then the mask of no emotion fell onto his face again as he struggled to get back into character.

“Release feels good, doesn’t it? Do you want another kind of release? Have you ever had an orgasm before?”

John shook his head no. Hiccupped. He was all undone. 

“I’ll help you. Can I touch your cock? You have such a pretty cock. Can I put my mouth on it?”

“Yes, and fuck me.”

John knew that wasn’t possible, not all at the same time, but he wanted it. 

Sherlock wasn’t listening to him. “It won’t hurt. All the hurting is done for today. Please.”

John grabbed Sherlock by the back of his neck to bring him closer, to push his head down to his crotch. God, Sherlock had a lovely mouth. John pushed up into it. He realized he was still crying, not sobbing, just letting tears slip from his eyes. It felt good. It felt good to let go of everything, to let Sherlock see it. 

He wanted. He wanted desperately to fucked, to feel Sherlock inside him, to have their bodies joined together in that way. He wanted to sit on Sherlock's cock and cry because Sherlock wasn’t giving it to him hard enough, fast enough. He wanted Sherlock to take him apart again and again. 

He rose up onto his elbows when he came. He put his hands in Sherlock’s curls and felt Sherlock swallow around his cock. He let his head fall forward onto Sherlock’s and wished they could always stay as they were now.

~*~

“I’ll always fix you,” Sherlock said. He was helping John up the stairs. It wasn’t really necessary except that it felt like it was. “Sometimes I’ll have to break you, though, so I can fix you. You don’t mind it?”

“I don’t mind it,” John said. “You really did fix me, Sherlock.”

“I fixed some of you. I don’t really want you fixed all the way, John. You might decide you don’t need me.”

John stopped walking. He was above Sherlock on the stairs. It felt nice to lean down and tip Sherlock’s chin up to kiss him. 

“I’ll always need you, and if there are times that I don’t, you’ll need me.”

“Tea?” Sherlock said. 

John smiled. He didn’t want to move just yet. Tea would mean moving on, slipping back into everyday life. He ruffled Sherlock’s hair. 

“I’m very fond of you,” he said. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. When he opened them he took John’s free hand and pressed his lips to palm of it. 

“Do you think the treatment worked? Or will you need weekly appointments?”

“Weekly,” John said. “Maybe more than that. I think I need an intense round of therapy.”

“Good,” Sherlock said.

He let go of John’s hand and started up the stairs. It was dinner time. John felt fresh and new and ravenously hungry.


	9. Chapter 9

Oh.

He got it now. John understood all the songs. He could sit and read poetry in his well-loved chair in front of the fire and let his heart soar with the poets. He could lie in bed with the warmth, the heat, of Sherlock’s body above him and understand, finally, completely, what it felt like to be torn apart by lust, and love. 

He understood completely the feeling of being overwhelmed, consumed by another’s will, of being stolen from his own world and never wanting to go back. He could read the poetry, the stories, the novels, in the undulations of Sherlock’s body. He struggled with the fear. 

Feeling so alive, so blessed, brought to mind mortality. Not his own. He would have died happy in those moments of bliss. He began to worry about Sherlock. 

He bought a scale and a notebook and measured and recorded every calorie Sherlock consumed. That helped for awhile. It helped until he sat on the floor and screamed while Sherlock was in the loo. It was the doctor in him. Sherlock hurried out and John hurried into the loo. He shut the door in Sherlock’s face and looked into the toilet. Sherlock was pooing good poo. 

“John,” Sherlock said, opening the door after John had gotten a good look. “You’ve gone a bit mad.”

John shuffled his feet, feeling the blush come to his face. “I just need to know you’re okay.” 

It was insane. John had literally just jumped off the deep end of insanity but Sherlock just lifted his chin and smiled at him.

“I’ll have blood work and urine and stool samples sent to the lab weekly. They owe me a favor.” 

John let Sherlock guide his face up. He met Sherlock’s gaze. 

“Monthly will do,” he said.

“Twice a year. You take such good care of me.”

John couldn’t control the smile that spread across his face. 

“You need to be fucked so, so badly. Don’t you? It will make you feel better. Come here.” 

And Sherlock, the same Sherlock that presented an ice-cold front to the world, wrapped his arm gently around John’s waist, patted his bottom, and led him to bed. 

~*~

He was tied to the bed with pretty bows of black ribbon. 

“They’re loose,” Sherlock said. “Stay in them anyway.” He placed a kiss on each of John’s wrists. Then he spread John’s legs and settled between his splayed thighs. 

“No toys this time. No plastic. Just flesh,” Sherlock said, and he spit obscenely on his fingers and pressed and John spread his legs wider and arched his hips so that only his shoulders and head and feet were connected to the bed. 

Sherlock smiled at him. “Hold that. Hold it there. Hold this position until I give it to you.” His voice was husky and even deeper than it normally was and John felt a flash of triumph that he had managed to produce some disturbance in Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock bit his lip as he watched his fingers working in and out of John’s body. 

“I think I’m going to have to marry you. I have some absurd desire to put your want of me on display. Maybe I’ll just take you out to some seedy club and fuck you in front of an audience. Which would you like you sweet, dirty fuck? Tell me. I can never decide if I should degrade you or celebrate you.” 

“Both,” John said.

Sherlock smiled and began to fuck his fingers in and out of John’s body rapidly. With his other hand he opened his trousers. 

“I’ll marry you so sweetly. I’ll make you wear flowers in your button holes. Then I’ll take you somewhere dirty for the honeymoon. I’ll make you do things you wish you could regret. But you’ll enjoy yourself too much, John.”

“Then you’ll stick the stems of the flowers up my arse. Pull them out with your teeth.”

John’s thigh muscles were trembling and Sherlock let out a deep moan of lust. 

John shut his eyes and bore down onto Sherlock’s fingers. 

“Please, Sherlock. Cock. Give it to me.” 

~*~

John was covered in sweat and slippery. The pretty black bows slipped from his wrists. Sherlock’s hands slipped over his ribs, and belly, and hips as he maneuvered John to sit astride him, to roll over and take it from behind, to lie on his belly while Sherlock rubbed his face into the nape of John’s neck as he entered John yet again, to turn John once more so he could hook John’s knees over his shoulders and shift his eyes between John’s hole and John’s face. 

“You look so good taking it. I wish you could see it, John. Your arse looks obscene and your face is beautiful. I just want to fuck you.” Sherlock pushed into John hard. “I just want to fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. I want everyone to see. I want to keep you as my own. I want everyone to see.”

Sherlock drew John up into his lap as he came. John let his head loll back as Sherlock shuddered into him. He was sitting across Sherlock’s thighs and Sherlock was panting and possibly drooling onto John’s shoulder. 

“I need it, Sherlock. Now. I need it.” 

Sherlock shook his head and drops of sweat flew from his hair. 

He seemed half drugged, nearly delusional.

“Eat you out. Suck you,” he said.

John was upended. His head hit the mattress and then Sherlock was licking and sucking everywhere between his thighs. First at John’s arsehole, which made John scream prayers at the ceiling, and then at his thighs and balls which made John pant pleas to any merciful deity. Then Sherlock had John’s cock in his mouth and John stopped praying, stopped thinking, stopped worrying, stop trying to be anything but the craving animal that was trying to thrust its way into oblivion. 

~*~

Sherlock was tender and diabolical in the aftermath. He fingered a balm over John’s arsehole that stung. He held onto John’s ankles. Held his legs splayed open as John swore.

“Shush now. It will only sting for a few moments.”

John writhed in Sherlock’s grip. 

“Want something to take your mind off of it? I’ll wager the sting of that rubber paddle is worse.” 

~*~

In the morning the bed was rumpled and the sheets were disreputable. John’s lips were on Sherlock’s nipple. He pulled back, blinking sleep from his eyes. He spent a moment regarding Sherlock’s sleeping face, child-like and peaceful in its repose. After a moment he pulled the sheet away from Sherlock’s body. It fell aside in ripples, revealing the breathing, marble statue of Sherlock’s form. So perfect. 

Sherlock had a tiny bruise on his hip. There was this one imperfection marring him. John leaned forward to kiss it. It wasn’t a bruise though. He could see that as he studied it more closely. It was a brand. How had he not noticed it before? He really must be as unobservant as Sherlock claimed. 

Branded into Sherlock’s hip were two letters. John closed his eyes to keep back the tears as he kissed them.


	10. This is So the Next Chapter

Where was happily ever after? He was a man in love. He had enough money to live a reasonably comfortable life. Though he still felt guilty about taking a cab instead of the tube and felt guilty about the miserly tip he handed the cabbie as he climbed out of the cab at Baker Street. To top it all off it was beautiful, autumn day and a refreshing breeze tousled his hair as he mounted the steps to 221B. 

John should be immensely pleased with life and felt guilty again as he paused on the doorstep to breathe in the last of summer. Maybe he should give himself a break. He’d spent the most of the day checking Harry into her latest rehab. This was her fourth time. Or was it her fifth? Or third? Or sixth? There was the time after Dad died, and the time after the cat ate a button, and she’d gone in when John had been in Afghanistan, and the time…Christ, maybe it was her eighth try. 

Poor wretch. 

And all John wanted was a glass of whisky. Or three. Or how ever many it took to forget her face and the bile she spat at him and the tears on her face as she begged for forgiveness. However many whiskeys it took to erase the fact that Sherlock was far away. However many whiskeys it took to erase John’s need of him. 

The door opened and there he stood, Sherlock, home early. 

“Good, just in time. I’ve been summoned,” Sherlock said. 

John paused, suddenly overwhelmed with relief and need. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. 

_I needed you._

_What a surprise._

_Thank god you’re back._

_Welcome home._

All these responses wrestled on his tongue for a moment. In the end John didn’t say any of those things. Instead he stepped into Sherlock’s arms, which hadn’t been open for a hug but closed around him nonetheless. 

John gripped the sleeves of Sherlock’s coat tightly. 

“You said you’d be gone for a few days. It’s been a month.”

“I explained all that on the phone. You said you understood. Can we argue later? Lestrade needs…”

“Harry’s in the hospital.”

One of Sherlock’s hands left John’s back to cradle his head. 

“Are you okay?”

He pulled John with him into the safety of the hallway and shut the door to the street. 

John struggled to overcome his moment of weakness. 

“Greg needs you? Is anyone in danger? You should…”

“Nothing I can’t solve from the bedroom…the sitting room…kitchen…tea?”

Sherlock took John’s hand, leading him up the stairs, murmuring that he had just wanted to show off but his presence wasn’t required. (Really it’s much more satisfying to show off in person, John, but a quick text with an added OBVIOSLY was just as good today.)

“Tea?” Sherlock said over-brightly once they had gained the safety of the living room.

John, feeling very small and infinitely vulnerable shook his head. 

He liked watching Sherlock’s response to this, the thoughts flickering across his face before Sherlock had the chance to school them.

“We need to talk about this, John. It’s one of those things you would make me talk about. And you’ll avoid it like a cat avoiding water but you do need to talk about it. We can do it now with tea or whiskey or a bit later with you in my bed and your arse in the air and your cock and tears making my bedding all wet. “

John went a bit weak in the knees but Sherlock was close enough to grab him around the waist.

“You always choose the hard way. Why do you make everything so difficult?”

~*~

It was hours later and John was boneless, lying on his front on Sherlock’s bed. 

Sherlock shoved his phone into John’s face. 

“Donovan solved it. I was wrong. Maybe I did need to be there in person.” 

“Sorry,” John said. He didn’t feel sorry though. Someone had solved it. Someone had solved it while all of Sherlock’s massive intellect hand been devoted to The Sad Case of John Watson Being Sad. 

“Do you still want a whiskey? I could do with a drink to be honest. It’s exhausting to watch you come all undone. Are you alright?” 

John smiled, touched by Sherlock’s concern for him and suddenly concerned for Sherlock as well. He, John, had put on quite a show, confessing and pleading and begging.

He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. 

“I wish I’d had you all my life. When I’m feeling like this…you know what to do with me. I need…” Here John stopped to blush but he made himself continue. “God, if I could have you in both ends at once and wielding a whip and speaking with that voice.”

Sherlock reached down to pinch John’s red backside. He reached lower, a light caress between John’s legs that set both of them panting. 

“Could you go again?” Sherlock said. “ I could go again.” 

There was a happily ever after. But the happily came in bits and fits spread out over the ever after. John was going to make this bit and fit last. 

“I’m going to get dressed. And you’re going to go sit in your chair and make up a reason why I have to ride you there. And then we are going to eat some happily-ever-after food because I am going to be starving by the time you make me do whatever you want to do to me.” 

John prepared to leap out of the bed with glee but Sherlock held his wrist, held him a moment longer. 

“You’re okay, John?”

John thought about it. A sadness about his sister tugged at his heart. It was a fresh wound that tugged at all the old wounds that threatened to overwhelm him in his darkest moments. 

But there were Sherlock’s fingers wound about his wrist, holding him steady. It was his left wrist, the one that wanted to tremble and cower like rabbit in the wind. It didn’t tremble in Sherlock’s embrace. 

“I’m okay,” John said. That wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t the whole truth either. John tossed the whole truth at Sherlock as he sauntered his naked self away. “I’m okay as long as you’re here.” 

Sherlock took out his phone to text Mycroft. The king of Liechtenstein would just have to protect himself. Sherlock had a more important assignment.


End file.
